Regained
by LaCasta
Summary: Futurefic. What happens when Lex traps Superman and decides to try recruiting him. Usual disclaimer. FINISHED. I think
1. Default Chapter

2009  
  
I was dressed in dark but decidedly not sober colors. Rich colors, the colors of wine and of night. Moonlight glowed on my hands and reflected lights from the surrounding, lower, buildings cast strange shadows.  
  
I hesitated, buried my face in my hands, then fell to my knees. I rose, moved with dragging steps to the edge of the parapet, jagged as though with teeth, burying my face again, leaning against the waist-high wall. After a moment, I straightened, braced my hands on the edge, then hesitated, fell again to my knees, huddling in on myself like an animal.   
  
"Lex!" A voice that was barely a whisper came from above.   
  
"Stop interfering, Superman. Hell, might as well go out on those words, I've said them often enough." I didn't raise my head.   
  
"No, Lex. You can start again."  
  
Superman lightly jumped down, to stand near me.  
  
There was a popping, as if of fireworks, champagne corks, or dart guns. I raised my head, smirked, and rose as Superman doubled over, groaning, then fell full-length.   
  
"Sucker."  
  
Three women emerged from the office I'd left. The three virtues against one angel. Virtue is more dangerous to you than vice, Superman.  
  
"Excellent marksmanship, you all hit him." I looked at the fallen figure, emotion brushing against my heart like the touch of a feather. "I've changed my mind. I don't particularly want to watch you throw him over." Some forgotten scene stirred in my memory. A voice, but no name or face. "We could have been great together."  
  
I turned and saw the reflection in the glass as they hauled him upright. A reflection of regret. "Oh, what the hell, I've changed my mind *again*. Bring him inside. I've never tried convincing Superman himself to join the happy family of employees. We can always go back to Plan A if I can't be persuasive enough."  
  
****************************************************************************  
  
The darts had embedded the rock deep and then released it, so even if he had been able to pull them out, he would have remained helpless. Quick twists of a scalpel removed two of them, the third I left until the builders had completed the work, six hours later.   
  
I had luxurious furnishings brought in and shoji screens to hide the starkness of the lead-lined walls. The startkness and the panels behind which the glowing rocks waited. Mercy and Faith carried him in and put him on the bed. Another twist of the scalpel and the third rock was gone, just as the panels in the walls opened. I draped the silk and down comforter over him and left. He'd awaken from the deeper sleep and find himself in a state between discomfort and pain, if I calculated the dosage accurately.  
  
I waited outside, watching him through the camera, waiting until his eyes opened and he became aware of his surroundings. He grimaced, wincing as he tried to move, looking about in muzzy alarm.  
  
"Clark." I entered and the panels, triggered by the sound of my voice, silently shut.   
  
A risk--restored to strength, he could kill me easily--but a risk considered and chosen, determined and dared. I knew him, as well, he would rather try to reason, to appeal, than to do harm to anyone, even me. I'd have warning enough to open the panels. For him to associate my presence, my voice, with an ending to pain was key to my plan.   
  
"Clark," I repeated, sitting on the chair next to the bed, putting my hand on his. "It's Lex. Are you feeling better?"  
  
His eyes moved slowly and he opened his mouth, but no sound emerged.   
  
"Shhh, it's all right. You're going to be fine, Clark." I brushed the hair back from his forehead. "I'll be back in a second." In the bathroom, I ran two washcloths under the water, one hot, one cold. Returning, I wiped his face first with the one, then the other. "How's that?"  
  
"What happened?"   
  
"I'm not sure." Here was where I had to be careful, watching every reaction as I spun the deception. "You were sick, something had happened to you." Good, bewilderment in my voice. As I continued, I added a hint of pride and wonder. "You came to me."  
  
"To you?" He didn't sound indignant or as though he were contradicting the story I was telling.   
  
"I didn't take it as much of a compliment, you didn't seem to know what you were doing. You asked for help, though."   
  
"From you?"  
  
"I couldn't believe it myself. But you did. Just as though nothing had changed." I waited until his eyes were fixed on my face then swallowed hard. "Nothing has changed for me, Clark. I'll still do anything to protect my friends." 


	2. Chapter 2

"Can you remember anything of what happened?" I slipped my free hand into my trouser pocket where I opened, slightly, the lead container. Clark frowned and shook his head.  
  
"You said something about falling, about something hurting you, and about people not helping. Does that ring any bells?" He shook his head again, a shadow of pain crossing his face. Time had been kind to his face if not his heart; only hint of a furrow on his brow showed time's touch. I pressed his hand more firmly and closed the container fully.   
  
"How long have I...been out?"   
  
"Just a few hours." I looked away. "But for a while there, I thought we were going to lose you." His eyes looked guilty as my voice cracked. "I...I called your parents to tell them you were...here, but your father hung up on me. If you call them, they'd probably appreciate it." I handed him my cell phone and he looked surprised.   
  
"Nobody's answering." Well, no wonder, I'd programmed the phone that way.   
  
"You can try again later." I shook my head as he reached to give the phone back. "Keep it, there are probably other people who want to know you're safe. But Clark...be careful about who you tell you're...vulnerable." I looked deep into his eyes, which showed no signs of perturbation. But Luthors are good at polluting and disturbing even the most tranquil waters, in all possible senses.  
  
"I trust my friends," he said, steadily.  
  
"But be careful. You never know who might want to know too much, or say too much." Unspoken words and names hovered. Let those ghosts whisper to him later, when he is alone. I lightened my voice. "Do you want to shower?"  
  
There was still so much teenage boy in him--I saw him trying to sniff the air, and I chuckled. "Don't worry, the people in the office are just complaining so far, not rioting." It earned a tentative smile. "You're odor-free, but I thought you might feel better. We can go up to the penthouse. I just remodeled, so it's state-of-the-art showering." I smiled faintly. I'd done some structural remodeling up there for his benefit.   
  
"Maybe later."  
  
"Tired?" With all the sedatives I'd pumped into him, it would have been surprising if he wasn't. I'd been apprehensive about the amounts. I was able to face a deliberate death with eqanimity, if regret, but to destroy him through a miscalculation would be deplorable.  
  
"A bit." He smiled self-consciously after a huge, almost cat-like yawn.   
  
"I'll be right here if you need anything." I looked away. "That is...if you want me to stay." I've never failed to be amused by the contrast between an invulnerable body and a heart whose strings flap about for anybody to tug. He winced and I could tell what was going on in his mind, "Even mortal enemies have feelings that can be hurt, and hurting people's feelings is bad."  
  
I couldn't turn him into an unfeeling tool; even once he's mine, I'll have to meet his natural requirements of kittens in trees and children in tunnels and victims of natural disaster to rescue. A Hallmark hero.  
  
He hesitated and I got up. "That's okay. Push four on the phone's speed dial if you need anything, that rings my office." Guilt poured over his face and I walked out before he could ask me to stay. He'd marinate nicely. Outside, I coded the panels to delay two minutes, then open intermittently, to varying degrees. 


	3. Chapter 3

I gave him two hours and then came back, carrying a brown paper shopping bag. "I thought you might be hungry or thirsty," I said, not looking directly at him. At the sound of my voice, the automatic panels closed.   
  
He blushed. "I actually need to..."  
  
"Oh, of course. Right down the hall." I met his eyes and went to the bed to help him up. He leaned on me for an instant as he stood, and I kept a hand under his elbow. When I opened the door, he looked startled, then asked, "No lock?"   
  
He realized that it was a faux pas, and I realized it was my opening. I dropped my hand away from him as though I'd burnt it and hissed, "No, no lock, why bother since they're ordering the moldy straw and hungry rats for the dungeon, the rusty manacles are already there! Jesus, Clark, I knew that you believed every lie about me that anybody's ever told you, but--Even if you never gave a rat's ass, our friendship was the most important thing in my life, and even if you lied to me every moment, it still means more than you could ever think." I backed against the wall and shouted. "When you came and asked for help, for my help, I thought...I was stupid, stupid, stupid, I thought that things had changed. I guess not." I turned away and then stared back at him. "Why do I even care anymore?" I muttered. "If I try to do something good, it's just for the PR or it's because I'm benefiting somehow. If I make a mistake, well, then, that just proves that I'm evil to the core, that everything anybody said is true. God," I spat the consonants. "When I finally have the sense to shoot myself you can lead the dancing on my grave."  
  
"Lex..." I jammed my hands in my pockets and opened the container completely. He buckled and I reached out to catch him. Sweat poured down his face and his skin was discoloring. I gently lowered him to the floor and when his eyes closed, reached back into my pocket to close it.   
  
"Come on, Clark, wake up," I muttered as I put my hand on his chest. "I'm not going to let you die." Right on cue, he opened his eyes. I pressed a hand to my mouth, making it look as though I were fighting for control. He didn't know what I had already learned, that the man who masters himself can master the world.   
  
Before he could speak, I started. "No, Clark, there's nothing to say. That's how it is." He closed his mouth again. "I shouldn't have said all that, it wasn't the right time." I paused, "Since I've said something like that to myself every day since you left, it was too easy to give in to temptation." I helped him lean against the wall and brought him to his feet again. His eyes were deeply troubled. If I knew him at all, he'd spend a lot of time looking at the mirror in the bathroom, not out of vanity, but out of growing doubt.   
  
When the enemy is at war with himself, how can he fight you? 


	4. Chapter 4

I was pretending to be agitated while pretending to be calm. Since Clark's alien powers seem to be compensated for by a preternatural obliviousness to subtlety, I had to overact both aspects.   
  
When I came into the room, I cleared my throat, asked how he was doing, nodded when he answered that he still felt dizzy and sick sometimes but not as frequently, paced, cleared my throat again, and when he finally asked what was wrong, answered, "Uh."   
  
He looked at me with deep concern. "I can tell something's wrong."  
  
"Clark, I think--" I interrupted myself. "Why don't you sit down?" As he did so, I looked at him and then lowered my eyes. "I think I know what happened, why you got sick. It was a shock that did it to you, a, a very bad shock." He frowned and looked bewildered. This was the most delicate part of all.  
  
"What was it?" He was clearly going over the possibilities in his mind, a mental checklist of his hostages to fortune.   
  
"Your parents, Clark. They...they left you a note."   
  
He didn't reach out to take it but looked at me as if asking me to explain more. Perfect. "I kept trying to call them--nobody answered--and finally sent somebody down. I'm so sorry. Your father had been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. It would have been slow and painful. He and your mother decided to...she shot him and herself. I think what happened is that you went down to see them before, and...they didn't change their minds." I held the note out to him again. "This is a copy, the police gave it to me."   
  
He said, dully, "You bribed them."  
  
His mind was seeking refuge in trivialities. "A small infraction." I unfolded it and put it in front of him.  
  
"Dear Clark,  
  
I'm so sorry that your father and I are making you unhappy like this and that by the time you read this, you won't be as angry with us. Believe me when I say with all my heart that this is sparing all of us tremendous pain. Your father would suffer terribly, not just from his cancer, but knowing what watching him die would do to you, and I've lived with him and loved him too much to want to live for an instant without him.   
  
"We always loved you as much as if you were our own son.   
  
"Your very loving mother,  
  
Martha"  
  
"I can't believe it. Mom and Dad wouldn't do that. They don't run away from problems."  
  
"We never know what people might do. Good people can do very selfish things." I hastily added, "Not that what they did was selfish."   
  
"I don't remember anything like that."  
  
"Traumatic amnesia. You could very well remember later. The mind knows what it can handle when. Listen, I'll get you the best grief counselors there are."   
  
"I've got to get home." He got up and shook as I stood next to him and opened the concealed box.   
  
"I'll take you."  
  
"Why?" I closed the box as he looked at me.   
  
"Why?" I repeated, sounding confused.  
  
"Why are you..."  
  
"Clark, I'd never given up on our friendship." That was even true, in its own way. "You're more important to me than you can even imagine. Now that you need me, I'm not going to let our past misunderstandings get in the way."   
  
"It was more than a misunderstanding."  
  
"I'm not so sure."  
  
"Why do all your rivals die or end up ruined, Lex?" He looked at me as he had so many times before, but this time the accusation was melded with sadness.  
  
"Clark, that's like asking why extreme sports have a high accident rate. Scientists working with the most dangerous compounds pay more spectacularly for accidents than somebody testing the new lemon scent for detergent. Anybody who gets into politics either has to run with or against big money if they don't have their own. Big money and big crime, or people desperate enough to commit crime to get the big money, can't be separated."  
  
"You say that like you're answering a press question."  
  
"Isn't that what I'm doing now?" I risk a sidelong smile at him. "Besides, this is a question I've had to ask myself a lot. Is there blood on my hands?"  
  
"Is there?"  
  
"Some people have died or suffered because of me. Just like they have because of you. That makes us similar, Clark, not criminals." 


	5. Chapter 5

The Luthor luck was holding again.  
  
If the family legend that the first Luthor had sold his soul and that of all his descendants in exchange for money, power, and luck was true, then that first Luthor had been as fine a bargainer as any of his descendants. I had to keep from snickering, given that Clark was in the limousine next to me, but still wondered if that first Luthor had slipped in so much fine print that Lucifer found he'd surrendered the crown of Hell and become a Vice President of Operations or some such. I wouldn't be a bit surprised.   
  
All the time, I kept up soothing, sympathetic talk. I didn't think that he was listening closely, but didn't test the hypothesis. The sound of my voice was the important thing.   
  
Alexander the Great tamed his perfect horse by understanding it and I could hardly fail to follow such an example.  
  
"Do you want to stay in your parents' house, Clark, or do you want to stay in the castle?"  
  
It registered a few moments later that I had asked a question and he looked at me with apologetic puppy eyes. "Sorry?"  
  
"Would it be easier for you to stay in your parents' house or in the castle?"   
  
"I don't know. I guess my parents' house."   
  
"I'll stay with you, then. I don't want you getting sick again when you're alone." I calculated the risk of giving this as an order, not a question, and it paid off. He nodded, dully. If I'd had the box open, I'd have closed it, to associate docility with relief, but I'd prioritized making him associate being in one of my cars, driven by one of my people, with being without pain.  
  
The house would be different. I'd sent my other three virtues, Grace, Charity, and Prudence, ahead with copies of his keys, to prepare things.   
  
"I've called ahead to the examiner's office and the funeral home. They've already done the official confirmation of identity, you won't have to do that."  
  
"I thought I'd have to."  
  
"If it would give you closure, Clark, you can, but I talked them into a DNA confirmation if you don't want to." He swallowed hard and I touched his arm again. The first one to initiate physical contact is usually the dominant one. "I'm not sure it would be a good idea, from what the examiner said." He nodded.  
  
"Why did they do this to me?" Clark burst out after a few more minutes of silence. "Even if Dad wanted to die, why did Mom have to? I lost both of them!"   
  
"Sometimes a bond is so strong and so complete that..." I let my voice trail off so he'd finish the thought.  
  
"But I was part of their lives, too."  
  
"Remember the note? They loved you as though you were their own son."  
  
"Yeah. As *though* I were their own son." Good. A flash of anger, of resentment. A sense of having been betrayed. Clark was never like me; he always needed to love. Once he was surrounded by tombstones, of people or of illusions, he'd turn to the one person left standing, left offering him a warm, living hand. He'd fall at that person's knees.  
  
A fallen angel to serve the masters of all fallen angels.  
  
I've always liked poetry. 


	6. Chapter 6

In the funeral home, I covertly checked to see if Clark was watching, and when I saw that it would be within his line of vision, but that he wasn't looking directly at me, I scribbled on a piece of paper and slipped it near the director. Sure enough, Clark's journalistic instinct and hard-won experience with Luthor mechanisms won and as we waited, for the director to look in his scheduling book, he wandered over, casually, and glanced quickly at it. I was pleased, both that his Jonathan Kent ethics were wearing off and that he would read the directions as I had planned.  
  
It said, simply, "Whatever he wants, no matter what, quote him a price of about $2200 for the total package. I'll make up the difference." I'd written the first two phrases vehemently and added several underlines. After Clark had read it, I caught a curious glance or two from him and pretended total obliviousness.  
  
He let me guide him through the whole process, after I let drop that after my mother's death, my father insisted that I help arrange the funeral, to teach me that life goes on. Even under these conditions, he still looked at me with the uncertainty of a puppy who wants to share a favorite bone but isn't sure that it will make master happy again. It wasn't difficult, once he'd agreed to expensive burl walnut coffins, to get him to agree to the high-end ecoutrements. The funeral director had no inhibitions.  
  
Back in the limo, he muttered, "I've got to call Perry when we get to the farm, tell him what happened and when I'll be back."   
  
"See if you can take some time off. You need time to readjust and to get things in order." I knew he'd have plenty of time, given Maria's skillful hack.  
  
There weren't any rocks in the kitchen so I leaned against a chair as Clark made the call.   
  
"Hi, Perry, it's Clark."  
  
His face changed at what was doubtless a hostile greeting.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I did what?"  
  
"Perry, I honestly-"  
  
"You'll mail what?"  
  
"Listen, there's got to be some mistake, I wouldn't *say* things like that."  
  
"Please, I don't-"  
  
He hung up, apparently after his editor finished the conversation by hanging up on him, and looked shaken.  
  
"What is it, Clark?"  
  
"Perry says that I resigned. And that I sent a really nasty letter to everybody."  
  
"Let me." I crossed the room and hit the redial button, gesturing for Clark to put his head near mine so he could listen.  
  
"Mr. White, this is Lex Luthor."  
  
"Yes, Mr. Luthor?"  
  
"Clark's parents just died, they killed themselves." I reassuringly squeezed Clark's shoulder as I said this. "He was in a great deal of shock at the time, his behavior was very erratic. He genuinely does not remember writing or sending the letter. In fact, Mr. White, he called to tell you what happened and that he'll be back after the funeral. Could you decline to accept his resignation?"  
  
There was a long pause. "If he'd sent the letter just to me, like a shot. But he emailed the entire staff and was viciously insulting to everybody. Frankly, if I took him back, we'd have a mass exodus from the rest of the staff."  
  
"Viciously insulting doesn't sound like Clark at all. His job means everything to him now."   
  
"According to him, he's delighted to be rid of associating with the superficial and know-it-all Lois Lane, the bumbling Jimmy Olsen whom we keep on out of pity and a need for comic relief, and Gloria, the secretary who would put out for everybody if anybody wanted her. Just to share some of the milder invective with you."   
  
"Mr. White, I think that letter even proves that Clark wasn't himself when he wrote that. It's possible that the Americans with Disabilities Act would cover such a situation. I can get my attorneys to look into it if you like." Clark would have to get used to hearing the occasional veiled threat. Then the not so veiled.   
  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Luthor, but we have a file of unexplained absences on Clark's part. We've overlooked them largely because he's been otherwise reliable and a respectable team player but we'd be able to fight for his termination on those grounds."  
  
"Mr. White, then let me ask that you reinstate him as a personal favor. Perhaps some kind of gesture towards your staff might alleviate any rancor?"   
  
"Daily Planet staff aren't as bribeable as most others, you'll find. Or is that you have found already?"  
  
"Clark deserves another chance."  
  
"At another paper, perhaps. But he's no longer welcome here. Is there anything else, Mr. Luthor?"  
  
"Unless I can talk you into some human decency and compassion, no. Wait, I'm sorry I said that, I apologize."  
  
"It didn't change the situation. Goodbye, Mr. Luthor. Tell Clark we're mailing his last paycheck."  
  
As I hung up, I looked Clark in the face. "What did you do, Clark?"  
  
He sat at the kitchen table and buried his face in his hands. "I don't know, I don't remember anything."  
  
"I'll get you another job. You can put all this behind you."  
  
"Thanks, Lex, but...I've got to handle this on my own. I'll send them all an apology, that's the least I can do. God, I can't believe I did that." He looked up with woe-begone eyes. "I mean, sometimes I've thought things like that, when people were annoying, just the way that sometimes you have an unkind moment, but I *like* them. I like them all. I must have hurt their feelings so badly."  
  
Poor sweet boy scout. 


	7. Chapter 7

"Bedtime for boy scouts," I thought to myself, nothing both Clark's exhaustion and my own eagerness to start the next phase. I'd cooked him dinner which he nibbled at politely.   
  
"Clark, you look exhausted, you should go to bed." I hold up a hand at his look of protest. "I know, you don't think you'll sleep but at least it will be some rest."   
  
"I guess so."   
  
Pleased that he'd continued to follow my lead, I went over to him and put my hand under his arm. "Now." I said, mock-sternly. "Lex knows best."   
  
"Uhm, where will you sleep?"  
  
I'd hoped that he'd suggest that I sleep in his parents' bed, a symbol that he was starting to replace their role in his life with me, but naturally I couldn't suggest it myself. "Living room sofa looks good. I'll be nearby if you need anything, just give me a shout." I grinned wryly at him. "Just think, you're the only person in the world to have Lex Luthor as his personal Jeeves."   
  
I was quite tense as he went upstairs. If he found any of the surprises in the bedroom, well, I'd have easily escaped but I'd have had to snarl, "Curses, foiled again," as I left, and then I'd have had to send my fair ladies to finish him off. I couldn't understand the workings of that moral mind but I knew that this particular setup he'd not forgive or forget.   
  
If it's true that Lucifer represents Luthor interests, I decided, I'd have to drop him a note of commendation, perhaps one of those motivational mugs with a picture and platitude. I heard the creak as Clark got into his bed and did some more preparatory work for about an hour before setting off the remote that would open the lead containers that Grace had attached to the bedframe. I'd have liked to call it the Princess and the Plutonium but it wasn't quite right.   
  
It was a massive dose, almost as much as the three darts had delivered. Fortunately for me, he cried out in pain so I had an excuse to rush up the stairs as loudly as I could. "Clark, what's wrong?" I turned the light on and whispered, as if to myself, "Oh, my God..." at the sight of him, which was quite bad.   
  
I hauled him out awkwardly, and he stumbled as he tried to get his feet underneath him and working properly. A few times, I let him collapse on me, once even letting us both fall to the ground, me underneath him. I made appropriate pained noises and saw awareness of it in his eyes. As I got him down the stairs, I watched to see how he was reacting to the diminution of the pain.   
  
He was panting and sweating but able to walk without my support, though of course I kept holding him up, and I guided him to the kitchen, which I knew was his family's place for confidences and earnest talks, at the rate of sixty cliches an hour. I settled him in a chair and got a washcloth, wiping his face.   
  
"What happened?" he asked.   
  
I pour milk into a mug and put it in the microwave. Martha Stewart would have been so proud of me. "I don't know. I think it's your body's reaction to tremendous unhappiness." I looked down. "God knows, when my mother died, I wanted to die myself. This might be a physical manifestation of that." I found nutmeg and honey and add those, then put the concoction in front of him. He looked at it dubiously and I told him, "Drink up. It will help you relax." He obeyed me, though again it was politeness as much as an accepted authority.   
  
When he'd finished, I patted him approvingly and said that he should try to get some sleep again, adding firmly that I'd stay with him. He protested but I overruled him by saying that I insisted. I finished with, "I had to be alone, Clark, each time I lost the person I loved most. You won't."  
  
I smiled to myself as his eyes softened. He thinks he's invulnerable except for the meteors. Emotional pressure works even better on him.   
  
I walked him back upstairs and settled into a chair as he awkwardly got into the bed. I had a mixed response to the possibility of having sex with him, or as I would have had to portray it, making love or even becoming lovers. Certainly it would have cemented the bond quite strongly but on the other hand, if that was the appropriate appendage, I had profoundly disliked the times when I had been required to be a commodity in one of my father's deals. The first episode, during which my acting, drawn from self-preservation and fear, had led him to offer my father ten million in order to adopt me, had taught me a good deal in nearly every arena, but had emphasized my distaste for being helpless. It was to my relief that he didn't display any coyness or seem awkward beyond the situation's surface appearances.  
  
That morning, when he woke up, he was startled that I was there, eyes wide, even alarmed. I realized that the situation had been perhaps too smooth on the surface, that, so to speak, the skin of the injury had healed but there was infection underneath. That just meant that I'd have to lance it. 


	8. Chapter 8

I'd made sure that Clark's own close friends wouldn't be at the funeral. He'd see all his parents' friends, many of which would be sanctimonious about the suicide, but none of his own. As for me, I'd be present but nowhere near him, which he'd take as uncertainty and deference to his parents' feelings about me. I'd be able to gauge his dependence by seeing how often he turned to look for me. Charity was discreetly in the crowd, murmuring to anybody who asked that she had known Martha Kent in Metropolis and occasionally giving Clark a little dose of meteor. Of course, she couldn't get too close, but she was carrying a large enough piece that even fron a distance, it affected him, though just making him feel unwell rather than overwhelming him. Only once, after a particularly long blast, did he look for me. On the whole, I was disappointed.   
  
At the requisite lunch afterwards in the church basement, then, I made a point of being useful, helping to unfold chairs, being charming as I helped old ladies with walkers, generally acting like the helpful family friend and factotum. I even submitted graciously to the individuals who found it a refreshing novelty to call out "orders," telling me that something or another needed to be done. I didn't even take notes of names; I'd learned about the difference between petty victories and large ones and it also amused me that none of them had any idea what I was doing.   
  
When the final cleanup was done, everybody was thanked, and the usual awkward moments passed, Clark was looking as drained as if he were near a meteor. I went over to him and asked if there was anything else he needed me to do.  
  
"No, thanks, Lex. I really appreciate..." his voice trailed away.  
  
"You've had a long day," I said, sympathetically. I knew that he was holding up with the reserves of his strength, and another kind word would drain him more than anything else could. "Let's get you back."  
  
I drove him back to the farm and he made coffee. For such an insipid creature, he makes strong brews. When he poured himself a mug, wrapping his hands around it for warmth, I watched him, and just as he took a swallow, said, "We need to talk about your future, Clark."  
  
He coughed, and as I hit him on the back, I continued, "I think it would be best if you come back to Metropolis with me. That way, we can decide what to do about the farm, about a job for you, about where you'll live."  
  
"There's not much to do about the farm," he said, looking down. "It's not worth even the value of the mortgage."  
  
"Negative equity?"  
  
"That's what they called it."  
  
"That's not a problem. How much is it?"  
  
"I wasn't asking you for money, Lex." There wasn't the usual indignation in his voice.  
  
I smiled. "I was offering. That's different." I got up to stand behind him for a moment as I topped off my mug. "It would give me great pleasure to help you, Clark, you know that."  
  
"But I don't even know if I want...maybe I should let it go..."  
  
"What do you want, Clark?" I sat down again, pulling my chair closer, making eye contact which he found difficult to break. "That's the secret, to know what you want. From there, getting it is easy."  
  
"I don't know. I want..."  
  
We both raised our heads at the sound of cars tearing up to the house. I stood up, dramatically, letting the chair fall to the ground behind me. Car doors slammed outside, voices shouted, and a shotgun blast shattered the window nearest us. At the sound of heavy thuds against the door, the sound of wood ripping, I pushed my way past Clark and opened the door myself.  
  
While Clark stared, I was surrounded by men, all pointing guns at me.   
  
"Stay back, Clark," I commanded, quietly, and opened my box. As he tried to move closer, he was overwhelmed and doubled over. Though I turned away, I could feel his eyes fixed on me, piteously and helplessly, as I continued, "Gentlemen, he's not involved. I'll go with you as long as you leave him out of it." One of them prodded me with his gun as another jammed his against my chin. Ignoring them, I turned to Clark. "Just in case...Clark, goodbye." They led me out, two staying behind and keeping their guns trained on him until the first car had speeded away. The pouches hidden under their leather jackets kept him well-immobilized, and from their account, there were tears in his eyes.   
  
  
*******************  
  
Mercy snorted as I recounted the scene. "And he fell for it?"  
  
"Subtlety was always wasted on him. He was tearing down the highway like a madman, I hear. He's on his way now, after I told him I got them to let me go."  
  
A few minutes later, Clark indeed appeared. I stood up to greet him and turned to Mercy. "You can leave us now."  
  
She planted her feet firmly and I raised an eyebrow. "Are you disobeying an order?"  
  
"Are you giving me a dumb-ass order?" Clark was gaping at this interplay.   
  
"Mercy, I gave them what they wanted, they aren't coming back, and if they were, they'd have to get through-"  
  
"A bunch of paid guards who would look the other way for ten bucks."  
  
"Mercy," I repeated, sternly, staring her down.   
  
"You're the boss," she said, and sauntered out.  
  
"Nominally," I muttered as she closed the door behind her.  
  
Clark smiled uncertainly. "Who were those people?"  
  
"Real live Mafia. The...LuthorCorp had been competing with some of their areas. I'd started cleaning things up, but not quite fast enough. They didn't know that I had no interest in...retaining old business interests that I'd...inherited. And one can hardly publicize that a business is now severing illegal activities." I chuckled. "They probably imagined that I am the biggest pushover in business, when they started making demands, I told them which I had already met and outlined my detailed plans for the rest. In fact, they were inadvertantly quite helpful, there were several areas where I wasn't aware of certain activities."   
  
"I can't imagine anybody thinking you're a pushover."  
  
"Mercy does."  
  
His smile was more certain.   
  
"Thanks for coming to check on me, Clark. I appreciate it." I sighed ruefully. "Almost like old days. You save my neck one week, I save yours the next, or at least try to." I clenched the edge of my desk and saw him glance down as my knuckles whitened. "Clark, what happened between us? Things weren't meant to be...the way they turned." 


	9. Chapter 9

A/N:  
  
How's the pacing working out? On the one hand, I don't want it to be a "Lex waves magic Evil Wand and Clark succumbs," on the other hand, I don't want the tiny buildup of manipulations to get boring.  
  
**************************************************************  
  
Clark looked at me with troubled eyes. At their best, they can remind me of opals, the way they seem to change color with different angles and lights, one part of my mind noted, while the other parts did a last-minute recheck of my story.  
  
I sighed. "I can't help thinking that if I'd been around, maybe...maybe your parents wouldn't have...I'd have been able to get your father treatment...it wouldn't have been like this."   
  
"Your money couldn't solve everything. He never would have taken it, in any case."  
  
"No. Ironic, isn't it? The people I want most to help won't let me, the ones I don't care about are always right there when the checkbook comes out. I learned that in Smallville and keep learning it again." I laugh shortly. "I learned a lot in Smallville, and mostly the lessons my father wanted me to. That my name defines me absolutely. Even Alexander Borgia had a grandson who was named a saint. I suspect it will take more generations than that to clean the Luthor blood. That's what I learned when I came back to Metropolis."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"You reported most of it, you should know. He was dead. Level Three--remember that--that was the equivalent of not mentioning his favorite toothpaste. There were so many secrets, uglier and uglier, that I kept finding. They were so mixed up with legitimate business that it was hard to separate them. God knows I drove myself more than a little crazy trying to. Shutting things down that turned out to be legitimate, pouring funds into what were cover companies." I veiled my eyes with my lids. "I had no idea what to do or how. After all, I could hardly call in Arthur Andersen. I think if one person had told me that leaving it all behind was an option--I would have." I closed my mouth abruptly. "But I didn't want to talk about my troubles. They don't matter."  
  
"Of course they matter." That was the earnest old Clark, eyes shining with unspoken platitudes.   
  
"All right, then, they can't be solved."  
  
He had the grace to look hesitant before answering, "Of course they can."   
  
I swallowed hard. "You still have faith in me, Clark."  
  
"Come on, Lex, everybody says you're a genius."  
  
"And you believe what they say in the papers?" I grinned up at him, teasing, as I had so often before, then held my hand up to my mouth. "God, Clark, I didn't mean to say that."  
  
"Say...oh, the papers...Lex, I still can't believe I did that. Even if I was...out of it."  
  
"Pain makes us strike out in strange ways, Clark. When we feel as though people are abandoning us or betraying us, sometimes we're the ones who run away first, or hurt them, in order to make them get it over with. God knows I did." I muttered the last under my breath, but he heard me, as he was intended to. 


	10. Chapter 10

I needed to think so I gave Clark another dose of exposure to a meteor, then after I saw him to the room I now thought of as his, I sat for several hours, contemplating my next move.  
  
My father once had an exceptionally fine Stradivari violin. I've always prefered the cello or better still, the piano, among classical instruments, but even so, I could appreciate its beautiful tone and the air it exuded of simple perfection. Even sitting on a table, it seemed to declare to the world that it was one of the finest things ever created, a treasure. However, despite the climate-controlled room, one day it developed a hairline crack. When that happened, my father threw it away without a second glance. I was young--I protested--but he told me that when something once great develops a flaw, it has no more worth of any kind, that it has betrayed its own nature.   
  
For people like Clark, flaws are endearing, proof of humanity. It struck me as the supreme irony that he, the one justly called a Superman, was so tolerant of flaws, when he had the capacity to be flawless himself.   
  
More and more, flaws have the power to fill me with disgust, though as a hater of hypocrisy I must say that my own fill me with the most. I have become to believe in the destiny that I had despised. He cannot be a Superman without me.   
  
For several years, I thought that my father's decision to throw out the violin was wholly wrong. I thought so for all the wrong reasons, of course. He was right to destroy the violin; it was perfect as it was before. But Clark, on the other hand, is a few steps short of perfection. Once I've made him so, cleaned him from the doubts and qualms in him that prevent him for reaching for all he can have, he will be flawless.  
  
Of course, winning his trust and belief in me, would be easy, judging from the progress I had made. But from there to obeying me? Obedience is based on greed or fear. As for greed, wealth would hardly attract him; he could have all he wanted for the taking. Power? The same holds.  
  
I stood up, impatient with myself. I'd compared my thoughts to a grand master's or a great general's, but forgotten the primary rule, to enter one's opponent's mind. I startled to scribble on a piece of paper that was lying to hand.  
  
Gratitude.  
  
Affection.  
  
The instinct to help.  
  
Charity called me. She'd been monitoring Clark's room, on my orders to alert me if he showed any signs of severe emotional distress. "Boss?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"He's crying."  
  
I got up and went downstairs, first to the control panel where I set it to give him the full strength for about ten minutes, and then subside. I joined Charity and watched to make sure that it wasn't going too far, and then went inside after the ten minutes had passed.   
  
He was in almost as much discomfort as when he first arrived. "Clark!" I called, holding him up as his head lolled. I rubbed his wrists, wiped his face, and called to him again, in a seeming near frenzy. Just as he began to show signs of life, I pleaded, "Don't leave me, Clark. You can't leave me alone again," then resumed calling his name. I enfolded him in an embrace that was far better-acted than any of my father's were, then lowered him back to the pillows immediately. He didn't say anything or return the touch, but he wasn't oblivious.   
  
"This can't go on," I murmured as the effects wore off and he started to sit up. "It's not wearing off. If it's your body's response to being unhappy, it's gone into overdrive. I'm afraid it's going to kill you.  
  
"I'm going to have to ask you a question. Do you trust me?"   
  
*****************************************  
The next chapter will have a lot more action. Assuming you want it to go on, that is! 


	11. Chapter 11

Adrenaline was coursing through me as I waited for his answer.  
  
"I...I guess it depends." He'd become somewhat less introspective than the high school student who would have analyzed his thoughts and emotions, all viewed through a gauze of guilt and responsibility and vague dread. "I mean, if you'd wanted to do anything to me, you could have when I first came here, or when I was out of it..."  
  
"Then I'll ask you this. Did you try to kill yourself, expose yourself to too much of the meteors, even swallow one? I'm not going to judge or condemn you, Clark," I added as he hesitated.   
  
"No." He then grimaced. "Or at least I don't remember, but that doesn't say much, I don't remember writing that letter, or my parents telling me, or anything like that."  
  
"Don't worry, Clark, I think it's unlikely. You'd be feeling more persistent pain, at least, unless your body is having some success in fighting the effects. I think my original theory is still valid, that something in your brain or nervous system is over-triggering a body response. Almost like an auto-immune disorder. Does the pain get worse when you're...thinking about things?"  
  
He lowered his head in thought. "I...it seems to get worse when I feel...lonely."  
  
"Abandoned?"  
  
"I guess so."  
  
"That fits. You had two very traumatic abandonments in your life, so bad they make mine look like an hour's separation. The first one, when your...home people sent you away, and now this one. You couldn't *not* be affected by all that. But I think something's gone into overdrive. So I'm asking my real question about trust now. Will you let me run a brain scan on you? If we can see what your body is doing, we can try, well, biofeedback, or try something to supress the reaction."  
  
He looked mulish. "I don't want to take drugs." To think that some people say substance abuse messages don't reach today's youth.   
  
"I'd keep that as a last resort, anyway," I answered, with a light smile. "There's no good website on the effect of neurochemicals on alien brains, believe it or not."  
  
"So that's one in the eye of the people who say there's a site on every topic," he chuckled uneasily.  
  
"Do you want to get it over with now?"  
  
He hesitated a moment, then got up. "Yeah."  
  
I rested a hand on his shoulder for an instant and walked him up to the lab. I'd confidently had it cleared of anything that he would still object to, some of the more advanced experiments, and gestured for him to sit on a table. He was visibly nervous, eyes darting and shoulders tense.  
  
"Can you take off one of your shoes for me?"  
  
"A shoe?" He laughed. "If that's where you're planning to run a brain scan, I think I've changed my mind."  
  
I looked at him sideways and then answered, "I mean it. I want to test for the Babinski reflex. If something happens when I touch your foot, it might indicate an abnormality in nerve tracts."   
  
He gave me an incredulous look but complied. "Now, just relax," I told him, lifting his leg. I ran my fingers on the underside of his foot, and as I expected, there was no response, though it would have been a promising insight into other matters if there had been. "Perfectly normal," I reassured him, letting the foot go. "If there had been certain types of nerve irregularity, there would have been some involuntary motion, your big toe would have moved. Or if you have ticklish feet, of course. So it's still a possibility that there's damage to your peripheral nervous system, though there could be to your autonomic nervous system."   
  
He was shaking, barely perceptible to the sight but easy to detect with my hands as I smeared gel on the sensors and affixed them. "I know, it's ridiculous to say relax right now, but try. I want to get images of your brain at its normal operations." I glanced around the room as if for inspiration. "Tell me about...oh, tell me about your apartment. What does it look like?"  
  
"It's kind of messy. It's a studio, but a decent size. Older building. It looks a bit like a loft, the ceiling is real high but it has these odd angles in it. There's a big window in one of the walls, but not on any of the others. Let's see, there's a sofa bed, and lots of red pillows that my mo..." His voice broke off.   
  
"That's okay, Clark. I have some good images here." I paused. "This will be the hard part. Make yourself think about...anything that makes you feel lonely, or abandoned...I'm sorry to have to make you do this."  
  
"Don't be." His eyes were lowered and veiled.   
  
"There's no change," I said after a moment. "There goes that theory." I sighed. "Pity, it was a good one. Actually, it was my only good one."  
  
I waited for him to say something, then realized that expecting him to think in subtleties was beyond the boy scout's capacities. "Wait," I said, slowly. "Let's try this again. But I'm going to leave the room. Maybe it's hard to feel abandoned with somebody right there."   
  
He looked skeptical again but nodded, then grimaced as some of the sticky gel moved. As I left, behind his back, I slipped the piece of meteor on a shelf. I hadn't modified the lab yet, but I expected that the piece would do.  
  
I came back after ninety seconds. Clark was uncomfortable and perspiring. I put the meteor back in the lead container as I walked over to him.  
  
He tried to chuckle. "Looks like that did it."   
  
"Shhh. You'll be fine in a minute." I patted his shoulder awkwardly as the color returned to his face. "Better now?"  
  
"Better."  
  
"Let's see what we've got." I showed him the various brain images which I'd previously set up as the new images. The real ones were already saved to a hidden server for me to look at later. I pointed at two small, very bright spots. "That's it. Over-production of acetylcholine and under-production of enkephalins."   
  
"Lex, I'm not a scientist like you. What does that mean?" The first sign of testiness.   
  
"Are you familiar with what adrenaline and serotonin do?"  
  
He nodded. "Adrenaline is pretty much the fight-or-flight and serotonin is kind of a mood regulator."  
  
"That's the general idea. Acetylcholine and enkephalins are very much like them, neurotransmitters in the same family. They help control the muscles, help process memories, and regulate emotions. Your memory lapses fit in with that perfectly, as well as all the other symptoms."   
  
"Why does it feel like the meteors, then?"  
  
"I'm guessing here, Clark, but probably they have some kind of frequency that interferes with your brain and causes the same thing. I don't know if it's the kind of weakness that would affect your entire...people, or if it's the equivalent of a genetic predisposition to, say, clinical depression. Since the meteors came with you, I'm guessing the latter."  
  
"So even among my own people, I'd be a freak."  
  
I took two steps towards him. He actually looked at me with a hint of defiance, but it was the look of a child almost daring an authority figure to stop him doing something; the look of someone who knows he can be stopped. "Clark, you are not a freak. Or an abnormality. You are..." I made myself come close to stammering, and took a step back. "I won't listen to you talk about my friend like that." I smiled slightly to take the sting of the harsh tone away.  
  
He looked awkward, even performing his high school trick of seeming to try to shrink. "Sorry." He looked up at me again. "But what does all this mean?"  
  
"It means that at least until your brain returns to normal on its own, we just need to get you something to regulate your system. There are all kinds, and they're all generally safe for humans. We just need to see what will work for you." I paused. "Then you'll be as good as new. You'll be able to leave." I said the last quietly. 


	12. Chapter 12

I suggested that he wash the gel off his face, get some rest, and then meet me in my office, where we could talk about what to do next. In the meantime, I'd do some reasearch on the best drugs to try for him.  
  
When he came in, I was at my computer. I immediately minimized the windows and looked guilty and uneasy. Clark came over and asked, "What was that?"  
  
I compressed my lips. "Something I'd rather you not see, which is why I closed it."  
  
"So you're still hiding things from me?"  
  
"For a while, yes."  
  
We stared at one another for a long moment, and he broke the eye contact first. I put a hand on his arm. "It's nothing that's wrong, by anybody's standards. Rather, it's something you'd find unnecessarily upsetting."  
  
"Like Club Zero?" His eyes met mine again, challenging. "As I recall, you needed me to get you out of that."  
  
I sighed heavily and got up. "Take a seat. Take a look, while you're at it." Not looking away from me, he sat and opened the windows. Two headlines popped up. "Kitty Genovese again? Superman collapses and everybody watches--nobody helps." The second was "Superman disappears. Did big business put a hit on him?" The first was by Lois Lane, the second by the staff of the Inquisitor.   
  
Clark scanned both articles. Lane's compared him to the case in New York where a woman was stabbed on the street, repeatedly, over the course of nearly an hour, with dozens of people watching from the safety of their homes, nobody calling the police or assisting her. She had interviewed nearly every witness I had primed. Most of them said they didn't want to get involved or that they figured somebody else would help him, others specified that Superman had looked so deathly ill as he walked, occasionally stumbling or falling, even crawling at a few points, that they feared for some kind of infectious disease. The article continued, "Everybody who has read the Kitty Genovese story has thought to him or herself that they'd have been the exception. Sociologists have said that it was because nobody knew her. She was not a person to them. But every citizen of Metropolis knew Superman. Many owe him great debts. Those who were afraid of catching something were greatly mistaken. Every witness was already infected with the worst disease of all--indifference." The Inquisitor article was filled with lurid speculations and eyewitness accounts, including dripping green blood. It ended with an ominous, "The last person to see Superman watched him fall one last time outside LuthorCorp executive headquarters. Superman had often put a end to various LuthorCorp business activities. Security guards ran out and carried him in. He hasn't been heard from since."   
  
Clark looked up at me, half-laughing, half-scandalized. "I don't get it. Why were you hiding these from me?"  
  
"Some of the implications are rather disturbing, don't you think? I thought you'd find it painful to read that nobody so much as lifted a finger to help you."  
  
His face clouded for a moment and then he actually grinned at me. "You did. You helped me." The clouds returned. "But I don't like the Inquisitor saying you...Maybe if I come out and say, hey, actually, I'm alive, and it's probably thanks to Lex Luthor?"  
  
I rolled my eyes. "They'd say that I'd created a clone, or a robot, or put Dominic's brain in you, or something." I laughed shortly, "Mother Teresa could return to earth and say that I'd just helped you, as best I could, at least, and they'd say that I must have bought out Heaven." I looked pensive. "What does concern me, though, is that now the world knows you've disappeared. These both came out yesterday; I'd been trying to supress it but somebody refused to stay bribed. There's just no honesty in today's media any more."  
  
"Why? I mean, why were you trying to supress it?" Clark was probably readying a rewarmed speech on freedom of the press.  
  
"With Superman seemingly missing, crime rates were at eight times their usual rate last night. Tonight, I'm sending all the off-duty security who want to participate to form patrols in some of the most vulnerable areas, and I've bankrolled as much police overtime as they allowed."  
  
"But I can go out! It's been a day since I've been sick."  
  
"That's not enough. There are at least some who aren't convinced you're dead, they think you're waiting, or just hiding for some reason. If you do reappear and collapse in the middle of something, not only are you shown as vulnerable but you could get killed for real."   
  
"But..."  
  
I held up a hand. "Besides, what if you don't get better permanently? We need to know if we can handle this on our own. Perhaps we'd gotten too lazy, thinking that Superman would fix everything and the police would only be needed for directions and keeping donut shops in business."   
  
"But I..."  
  
"I'm not arguing this any more, Clark. Not tonight. And that's my final word." I held my breath. I'd issued an ultimatum that was both perfectly rational and firmly against his wishes. He was ready to protest but subsided.   
  
I smiled to myself. It wasn't perfected, but it was obedience. 


	13. Chapter 13

I stopped as though a thought had just struck me. "But you know, Clark, your experience could be very useful to them. Why don't you get back into your...uniform, and help me brief them. I've mapped everything that happened last night. You might know some of the areas or personalities involved." I paused, "If, of course, you think you're up to it."  
  
He looked at me steadily for a long time. He hadn't learned timing yet; the glance's length was meant, though processed only on an instinctive level, to unsettle me, but it was too prolonged and gave me time to rehearse, yet again, my prepared defense. "Why are you getting involved?"  
  
"The patrols and the security?" I spoke with some irritation. "Clark, this is my city, too. I know I've not been its best citizen but I've been trying hard to clean up LuthorCorp. I've made some mistakes along the line, and I had to face the public as though they weren't. Was I to confess to the world that I didn't know what was going on in my own company? The world forgives wickedness faster than it forgives weakness." I turned away for a moment. "You should know that. You were the one reduced to crawling along the sidewalks, without anybody giving you a kind look, let alone help, when you found out what being weak is like." As I turned back to face him, I pinned him with unforgiving eyes. "Superman? Superman would rather see wickedness than weakness. Even in an old friend. After all, wickedness he can punish and destroy, and congratulate himself on a job well done." I paused.   
  
"So you've always been the victim?"  
  
"God, you sound just like your father. Not victim or villain. Not even the hero I wanted to be, once. Just somebody who, like all the rest of us *humans*, tries to get it right, makes mistakes, and gets more tired with each one. Did you ever think, Clark, that while as Superman, you brought hope to everybody--but me?"  
  
"You tried to kill me. Several times, as I recall." He was almost too lucid, and I considered giving him a dosage of the meteor, to make him associate disputing me with pain and to provide the instant reminder of what I'd done for him. However, I knew that this discussion had to happen sooner or later and he had to see it as won fully on my part, not something where he gave up from pain or exhaustion.   
  
"Never you. I tried to kill Superman, yes. But once I learned Superman was you, was part of you...I saved your life."   
  
"You want me to be grateful," he answered, slowly, as if trying to figure something out.   
  
I strode to the doorway. "I don't care about your gratitude. I don't want anything you're unwilling to give. Even fairness. Now--I've got to see what I can do to help this city. Are you coming with me?"  
  
The scene, though with different words behind the actions, was a repetition of our last fight. But this time, when I left the room, he followed me. 


	14. Chapter 14

I was in a pensive mood that evening and after Clark, who still kept farmer's hours, had gone to bed, I stood on the roof with a drink, watching the night sky and the city lights.  
  
If the Luthor luck had ever failed me, it was in the case of Clark's parents. I had given them every chance to play the part that would keep them as much under my protection as before. Mentally, I relived the scene, to reassure myself that I had been left with little other choice. I'd gone to them myself, saying that I had Clark and that he was unwell. Jonathan Kent had glared at me with his inimical stare and thanked me coldly, saying that he would bring Clark back home. I'd said, mildly, that I would much rather keep him under my own eye, that I believed that Clark's destiny lay with me rather than on a farm and explained that their cooperation, which I would reward, would mean the freedom from worry, the ease, that they deserved. Martha Kent shook her head sadly and Jonathan Kent began what would doubtless have been an interminable lecture. I had no patience for this and started to leave, saying that Clark was in my hands and would stay there. Jonathan Kent, insisting that I stop doing whatever it was that I was doing to Clark and "give him back," threatened me.   
  
It was a sad miscalculation on my part to expect him to be reasonable. Perhaps Martha Kent would have been more so; I consider her a genuinely innocent victim of many different forces. I knew also that Jonathan Kent was a man of his word, no matter how rash or impulsive or ill-judged. It was a choice between their lives and the future I had planned for both Clark and for myself.   
  
I recovered the situation as best I could, so at least in the long run, my luck had held. I would have prefered, though, for them to be allies in making Clark my ally.  
  
Overall, though, my other risks had paid off. At the very least, Clark Kent's reporting was neutralized. That was the smallest of my goals but it was pleasant to consider it accomplished. Superman's interference? Being mitigated. Superman as my overt ally? That was the real prize. I savored the thought in my mind. He had become such an easy icon for all the values that people think are enough, the Cinderella virtues, allied with a near-magical strength. An angel that required no theology, that required no soul-searching. I wouldn't be surprised if somebody was now writing a book on channeling the inner Superman or some such flim-flam. To link all that symbolism to my name would open every door to me.   
  
I raised my glass slightly in a toast to my own future as I turned to go back inside. I frowned as I saw Clark standing in the doorway, as if my own thoughts had somehow summoned him. He looked perturbed, brow furrowed and eyes deep in puzzled thought.   
  
"Clark. I didn't even hear you come up. Couldn't sleep?"  
  
He continued to frown, then shook his head. "It's so strange. I can't remember, but this seems so odd, so familiar. It's blurry, though."   
  
After moving my hand so I could reach the box if need be, I stood motionless. "What is?"   
  
"Lex? Stand there. Against the wall." His words came slowly, like water being wrung out of a nearly dry sponge.   
  
Not taking my eyes off him, I stepped back and leaned casually against the wall. Even if he didn't yet realize it, he was trying to recreate the events of the night I started to take him back. I had to pretend to comply but make sure that he never got close to discovering the truth. The reflection of that past affection that had kept me from letting them throw him over the rooftop demanded it as much as my own ambitions did. 


	15. Chapter 15

I had the meteor in my pocket and I knew that Clark would never attack an unarmed man who wasn't presenting an immediate threat to him or anyone else, even if he did recover his full memory. I needed to test his memory before I spent any more time on him.   
  
"I remember *flying* here," he said, puzzled. "I'm sure I was flying."  
  
"You did fly past, several times. You...came to talk to me once, but, well, neither of us was in much of a mood for listening. We did manage some yelling." I smiled wryly.   
  
"No, that night."  
  
"Perhaps you flew to Metropolis from your parents' farm?"  
  
He frowned, shaking his head again. I opened my box slightly and then more fully, moving from my casual leaning stance to a wearied one, head bowed. "What's wrong, Lex?" I couldn't read anything in his voice other than normal concern--no hints of returning memory.   
  
"Just tired."  
  
The old expression of concern on his face, he tried to joke. "Most people go to bed when that happens."  
  
I half-smiled quickly. "The people who don't measure their paperwork by the pound."  
  
"Can I do anything?" Clark had definitely freed the inner boy scout.   
  
"You need to get some rest, too."   
  
"Just tried. Couldn't."   
  
I lowered my eyes and looked away. "Then, maybe, if it wouldn't bore you too much-"  
  
"Uh, Lex, I don't really know much business, I should warn you," he interrupted.  
  
"Oh, this is law, much simpler." I didn't even pretend to hide my amusement at his horrified face. "I'm trying to get stiffer OSHA regulations legislated for work with any kind of animal products."   
  
"Why?"  
  
"Why's a ruthless business type doing that?" I let another smile take some of the sting from my having voiced his inner thought. "I already set higher standards for my plants and had exceptionally good results, including some unexpected ones. Fewer sick days as well as fewer accidents. I could say, of course, that I'm doing it for all the workers in the United States, and that's partly it, but I also know that it would put me ahead of compliance, meaning my competitors would have to pour some capital into improvements. Enlightened self-interest." He'd been concentrating and was clearly confused about how to react. "Seriously. Just come into the office, have a dri-, no, perhaps better not, just keep me company for a bit." I lowered my eyes again as though the request had revealed some vulnerability that I partially regretted. It's all so very typical, how acute his perceptions are to emotions but how blind he is to reality of any kind.   
  
He followed me back inside, where I fussed mildly over getting him a glass of milk and settling him with the newspaper. Naturally, he covertly checked the masthead and saw the absence of his name, while I pretended to be tactfully looking elsewhere. Conscientiously, he read through the whole thing, clearly intending to support his colleagues, though technically speaking they weren't any longer. Every now and again, I raised my eyes from my paperwork and met his, sharing a quiet smile. Finally, I yawned hugely and laughed at myself.   
  
"All right, now I will give in. You, too, Clark." He didn't argue, just got up. "Clark, maybe I'm pushing too hard here. You don't have a job right now and probably should take some time off before hunting again, just in case. I'm...rather tired of being, of living all by myself. With all that, why don't you move into the penthouse with me?" I added, hastily, "It's huge, there's plenty of space, we wouldn't be tripping over one another's feet. That way, I wouldn't be worrying about you, wondering if you'd gotten sick again and maybe I'm really pushing it here, put it down to a bad upbringing, but I get the impression you'd be less lonely, too." I looked away quickly, as though not to see rejection in his face. "All right, foolish idea, you've got dozens of people you could crash with if you ran short of rent money. But if you do change your mind-"  
  
I looked at his face, a classic battleground of indecision and a hesitant compassion. "Wait a minute, Lex, I haven't even said no yet," he protested. "But I don't want to impose any more, you've already, I mean, I can see how busy you are-"  
  
I interrupted firmly. "Clark. It's not an imposition. It's a favor. Listen. No need to make up your mind now. Try it for a few days, if you decide that my snoring is unbearable, we'll figure something else out."  
  
Of course, I'd had the penthouse prepared so that if I needed to, I could give him a dose of exposure to the meteors in any room, from any room, but I intended not to do that except in case of an emergency. He'd find it more and more of a refuge. Nobody dying, nobody disappearing, nothing causing him pain. I pointed out where my bedroom was, then offered him a choice of the other bedrooms, suggesting that he might prefer the one with an adjoining office. "Wow, just the office is bigger than my apartment."  
  
"I can send somebody to start moving your things tomorrow."  
  
He blushed. "Maybe I'd better do that, it's kinda messy. I don't think I finished the dishes, too."  
  
"Never mind. They're paid not to care about things like that. You still need to rest and get better." I looked at him for a long moment, until he became slightly uneasy.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Just thinking about endings and beginnings. But mostly beginnings." 


	16. Chapter 16

A/N:  
  
Yet another story where I'm wondering if this is really the ending. You tell me!  
  
***  
  
I was feeling increasing frustration with the situation. Each day he spent as my petted, indulged guest created new bonds, but even these bonds of habit and comfort weren't strong enough. To follow the metaphor further, while I was looping and coiling more rope around him, it was still rope that he could break.  
  
He believes in obligations. In promises.  
  
Unfortunately, I disliked the plan that I knew would create those obligations and promises.   
  
But then, business is often about doing things one doesn't find tasteful.  
  
***  
"Did you hear me? Bad idea. I repeat, bad idea. And just in case you were distracted, once more. Bad idea." She stood with her hands on her hips, glaring.  
  
"Mercy."  
  
"Look, I hate compromises, too. But you know perfectly well that if you take all that to the authorities, your life expectancy goes to something that looks like the temperature in Siberia in winter. Minus plenty. You've gotten them out of operations, call that a good deed, get your little boy scout patch, and move on."  
  
"No."  
  
"Lex, you know, you don't have to keep the words spoken ratio so much in my favor."  
  
Good. Clark had obviously heard Mercy's yelling. People in the next four buildings probably heard it. He was coming forward, cautiously.  
  
I smiled briefly. "No?"  
  
She rolled her eyes. "I'm your bodyguard. That means I get a pre-emptive voice in anything that will mean your body will get pulverized and possibly encased in cement for posterity. You want to found an empire, Lex, not end up as part of the foundation of a parking lot somewhere."  
  
"Preventing that's your job, Mercy."  
  
"What's going on?" Clark looked puzzled and worried.   
  
"Dorkhead here-" Mercy started, while I began, "It's nothing to worry-"  
  
"Like hell it's nothing to worry about! Dorkhead here isn't just happy with getting rid of all the organized crime that got into LuthorCorp, he wants to hand over anything that could be evidence. That means he'll have not just the regular mafia, but the Russian mafia, the Hong Kong mafia, and the Japanese mafia all fighting to be the prince who puts the concrete shoes on Cinderella here."  
  
"I'm running the kind of clean operation my father never did. That's what I'm going to hand down to my family."  
  
"You'd better start either meeting more girls or putting deposits in the freezer, because once the shit hits the fan, you won't have a fucking chance of having a family, and I'm using the word in full awareness of all the possible senses."  
  
"You're exaggerating, Mercy."  
  
"Boss. Trust me? Not exaggerating. Understating. If you do this, they will go for your life." By the last sentence, her voice and eyes were serious. Even pleading. "Lex, just think it over, okay? Give it a day. Keep in mind what you stand to lose. You don't have to save the world, you know. Remember what happened to the last guy who went around like God's son on earth and told people to clean up their acts." She blinked a few times, then left.  
  
Clark looked at me and I smiled at him with an air of confidence. "It'll be fine. I pay her to look on the gloomy side."   
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Am I ever not sure?" I paused as though a thought had struck me. "Why don't you go talk to her a bit? She, well, she practically idolizes you. Me, she just yells at." I smiled wryly.   
  
"Uhm, talk to her about what?"  
  
"I might as well tell you now. You're the first." Clark grinned nervously. "I'm seriously thinking of running for Governor." I looked sideways at him. "Maybe you can give me some campaign tips."  
  
"Like how to lose gracefully?"  
  
"Touche. I've got to have a clean house before then." I lowered my eyes. "Besides. I do want a family. One of these days. I don't want to have to explain anything away." I looked out the window briefly. "Anyway. Talk to Mercy, would you? See if you can explain it any better than I can."  
  
"I'll give it a try." He went out reluctantly.   
  
I imagined to myself the scene that would take place. She'd shout at him, too, for a few sentences, then sit down and talk seriously, fixing him with her enormous eyes. "He's risking his life for this, Clark. He's got to understand that he's not up against civilized people. They will try to kill him for this. They'll have to get past me, but that won't stop them trying."   
  
"He's got to do the right thing." That, or some other platitude. Who says that Clark Kent didn't inherit anything from his father? A collection of platitudes that any museum would be proud to display, even if everyone who tried to catalog it died of boredom or nausea.  
  
She'd shoot him a suspicious look. "Stop sounding like him. You're not bald and it's creepy when people who don't look like him sound like him." Then she'd put one of her hands on his arm. "Clark, I meant it when I said that they'd have to get past me. If they do get to me first, Clark, will you take care of him? I don't mean just the bodyguard bit. You can give him what he really needs. Somebody who sees his mother's soul in him, too, not just his father's. Someone who knows that there's darkness in him, but believes in the incredible light he has, too. Somebody who believes that he's a good man. Somebody who believes in him.  
  
"Don't just promise me to protect him from outsiders. He'll face all kinds of temptations if he makes it through this and makes it into politics. You can be the one there who believes that he'll make the right choices. Or who will yell at him when he makes the wrong ones. Promise me--Superman?"  
  
I checked the productivity figures from Malasia while I waited for them to come back.  
  
Clark looked embarassed and Mercy shot me a triumphant look. "Okay, boss. I agree to shut up about it if you agree to let him help keep an eye on you."  
  
"Mercy, that's out of line. Clark isn't well and you know it. You aren't going to-"  
  
"She didn't ask, Lex. I offered."   
  
***  
  
It was a week later. I had delivered huge amounts of information to the FBI and to Interpol, and with Clark and Mercy, was returning after another trip to Washington to discuss it with two senators, whom I assumed really wanted tips on cashing in. Of course, I had covertly warned selected people in the various syndicates and the Triad, and so they were well-prepared for their own takeovers during the chaos. Most of them barely had to do a thing, just watch as the evidence against their former leaders mounted up. The new leaders of those organizations all owed me a huge debt of gratitude--which if it paid off, would be useful, if it disappeared, no great loss--and more importantly, knew that we could further one another's interests.   
  
Mercy and Clark had hovered over me like two hens with one chick, a simile I used often in conversation with them.  
  
"Two words, Lex. Death threats."   
  
"A few more words, Lex." Clark continued where Mercy had left off. "Burnt factory in Manila. Bomb in Madrid. Garotted employee in Hong Kong."   
  
"Let's forget about it for one moment. I'm going to make my public announcement of the candidacy in April. I'm hoping to make another kind of announcement soon." I smirked. "Mercy, will you go into my office? There's something there I want you to see."  
  
She looked at me suspiciously, "Is this another one of your little surprises?"  
  
I bent slightly to brush her cheek with my lips. "Go on, love." She looked even more started at the endearment and not taking her eyes off me, put her hand on the knob and opened the door.  
  
Clark was just a second too late. I knew that he'd be eager, still like a high schooler who knows it's cheating but can't resist, to look inside and see what the surprise was. They'd done good work. My office was filled with sunflowers, and right in the middle of the table was a box with a ring. Next to the ring was a note, which he'd be too shy to read. He'd done exactly as I expected, looked at these things and grinned to himself.  
  
The timing was so close it was hard to tell if the bomb went off first or if he saw it first and started to shout his warning just as it exploded. In any case, most of the ceiling came down on top of her and several hundred packing nails were driven into her body. She died as close to immediately as is possible. Just as I had hoped.  
  
He threw me behind himself as the room continued to shake, and then rushed to her. I followed him, knowing he would shield me from anything else that might fall, and we crouched next to her.   
  
"Those bastards. Oh, those bastards," I whispered. I touched her hand, which had been almost entirely severed by the explosion. "They timed it just right. It would kill me or her--and they even knew that I'd rather be the one who died..."  
  
I buried my face in his chest, though I was certain that my features held nothing but horror and grief.   
  
That night, as he tried to be sympathetic company, I feigned numbness, and then pretended to break down. I raved about the poisonous legacy I'd received, that left me alive but destroyed those around me. I begged him to promise to stay with me. Not to leave me. I couldn't bear having nobody any longer, and he was the only person I could feel it was safe to have in my life. No family, no love, no other friends. Just him.   
  
He promised.   
  
That was four years ago.  
  
This isn't the age of overt conquest, where captives are paraded in chains as a tribute to the victor's military prowess. Instead, Superman appears to walk willingly with me--he even thinks it was his free choice--and the gullible public sees it as a tribute to my many civic virtues.  
  
I look around and smile, eyes raised to the sky. 


End file.
